


we've met before, my love

by orphan_account



Series: hanakotoba [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Airports, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, F/M, Gen, sansa is a hipster, willas likes to garden, working my feels out through fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-01
Updated: 2013-04-01
Packaged: 2017-12-07 03:23:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 572
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/743625
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>And so it starts again just as it has for centuries.</p>
            </blockquote>





	we've met before, my love

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SecondStarOnTheLeft](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SecondStarOnTheLeft/gifts).



Sansa’s barely eighteen this time around, young, naive, and idealistic, ready to take on the whole world with a gentle word and a kind smile. She wants a degree in classical English literature, speaks French fluently, and, as the eldest daughter of the late Vice President Stark, is practically a Kennedy. 

Willas is twenty six. He has hair that is a rich chestnut brown that curls around his eyes, a ready smile, and a bum leg. He’s set to inherit the good Tyrell family’s multi-billion dollar company. He’d rather sit in his incredibly well tended garden and drink scotch. 

They meet in London Heathrow. 

Of course, they know each other. Their families run in the same global, yet somehow painfully small, social circle. They’ve practically known each other their entire lives. He knows what she loves (stories of gallant knights, damsels in distress, and evil queens), and he knows what to never speak of (the pinkened scars that criss cross her back from the worst years that have become gossip fodder). But they’ve never actually known each other. Never shared anything but a few friendly words. 

He recognizes her first. Her hair is in a bun with little Tully red tendrils falling across her face. A Kindle is teetering dangerously on her knees. A large Michael Kors is pushed haphazardly under the small seat she has wedged herself in. She chews absentmindedly at a manicure that probably cost more money that a meal for a family of four. 

He asks what she’s reading. 

She jumps a little. Her eyes shift nervously from her things to the nearest exit to the rather ornate oak cane he relies on a bit too much to his face. It’s a habit cultivated by hundreds of years of the same harsh treatment by the same harsh boy. 

He asks again.

Pride and Prejudice.

His favorite. 

He slips into the seat next to her, dropping his backpack and cane onto the ground. The clamor makes her jump again. 

He asks about her favorite characters in the books, how her brothers are, of her mother and sister’s health.

Charlotte Lucas. Her eyes light up, and she becomes animated when she talks about Robb’s twenty first birthday and Bran and Rickon’s shenanigans. She speaks in reverent awe of her mother and mild annoyance with Arya. (There is no mention of Jon, and at this point he’s not sure whether he can find fault with that. Something about that eats at him)

She nudges him playfully, inquiring of his favorite character.

He must profess that he loves Mr. Darcy. 

She laughs. 

The butterflies in his stomach leap for joy. 

He offers to buy her a coffee.

After much cajoling, she takes her up on that. He orders black coffee. She orders hot chai, the smell of cloves and cinnamon mixing with the lavender of her perfume. It’s a heady mixture.  
They sit and talk and talk and talk about everything and nothing in particular for hours. 

It’s the best time of his life.

Her flight to Vermont leaves in twenty minutes.

He offers to walk her to her gate.

She worries.

He insists. 

They stand in front of the gate. They exchange cell phone numbers. He promises to text. She promises to call. 

She kisses his cheek. 

He beams.

She whispers: 

“Il a été un plaisir”

_It was a pleasure._

 

And so it starts again just as it has for centuries.

**Author's Note:**

> we don't talk about my bad french and weird prose ideas, okay. 
> 
> never ever.


End file.
